


No Thanks for the Memory

by Riona



Category: Red Dwarf (UK TV)
Genre: Gen, weird memory stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24609484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riona/pseuds/Riona
Summary: Lister was just trying to give Rimmer his memories of an old girlfriend, honest. Giving Rimmerallhis memories? That was a mistake.
Relationships: Dave Lister/Arnold Rimmer (implied)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 65





	No Thanks for the Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry if the first few lines are a bit confusing; all will become clear!

“Now, Rimmer,” Rimmer says, “perhaps you’ll take the repair seriously this time. We don’t want another revolving toilet incident, do we?”

“Smeg off, Rimmer,” Rimmer says, tucking his cigarette into his ear for safekeeping. “Ackerman’s always had a stick up his arse, anyway; maybe five hours on the bog gave him time to get it out.”

“I was the first one he saw afterwards, you know,” Rimmer says. “I’m the one who repaired the mechanism. I think, if anything, he took the opportunity to insert several more.”

Rimmer shrugs. “It was a mistake, all right? Won’t happen again.”

“Of course it won’t, Rimmer,” Rimmer says, poking through the sheets on his clipboard. “I’ve no doubt you’ll find some new and exciting way to endanger the ship instead.”

Something doesn’t feel right.

Rimmer opens his eyes, dragging himself forcibly out of his memories. Stares at the top of his bunk.

He’s Arnold Rimmer, he tells himself, trying to get his bearings. Highest-ranking human being aboard _Red Dwarf_. Dead, unfortunately.

To the best of his knowledge, there’s only one of him. Why would he remember there being two? Well, yes, there was the unfortunate dual-holograms incident, but that seemed to be a memory from his days amongst the living.

He tries to think back. There they were, on G Deck, repairing the malfunctioning coffee machine. Him and Rimmer, who was being a smeghead, as usual.

No – no. It’s as if he’s got two versions of the same day battling each other in his mind. He was there with _Lister_ , who was being insubordinate.

That certainly seems more likely.

He climbs out of his bunk. Stretches, frowning.

If that memory is real, the other version in his head would be from _Lister’s_ perspective. Why would he remember that?

Rimmer turns around, tries to prod Lister awake. His finger, predictably, goes straight through Lister’s cheek, and he has to take a moment to reorient himself.

It’s been months since he last forgot that he didn’t have a physical body. Why now?

More memories that don’t make sense are coming back to him. More inexplicable conversations with himself.

“Lister,” Rimmer says, several times, at a steadily escalating volume.

Eventually Lister groans, stirs, opens his eyes. “What?”

“Lister,” Rimmer says, “why do I remember being you?”

Lister goes very still.

“What do you mean?” he asks, in a careful way that makes it _very_ clear he knows something about this.

Rimmer folds his arms. “All right, out with it.”

“Is this about Lise Yates?” Lister hazards. “’Cause I’m pretty sure she went out with both of us, man, it’s just a coincidence.”

Lise Yates. What a woman. Some of the best sex of Rimmer’s life. That’s not a name he was expecting to hear here.

“You knew Lise Yates?” he asks.

Lister stares at him, looking caught out. “Uh, who’s Lise Yates?”

“You’re the one who brought up her name,” Rimmer points out. “You’re saying _you_ went out with—”

Wait.

He knew _something_ was wrong with his memories of talking to another Rimmer. He hadn’t really examined his recollections beyond that. But, now that he thinks about it, something was strange about his behaviour when he was with Lise. Drinking and smoking to excess, apparently forgetting how to use an iron. And why would he have been living in Liverpool?

There’s something very wrong about all of it. Wrong and distinctly Lister-shaped.

“Lister,” Rimmer says, employing his tightest and most dangerous smile. “Why do I remember your _entire life_?”

“Smeg,” Lister mutters. “I must’ve messed up the patch.”

“The—”

It stirs something in Rimmer’s memories. Only he’s fairly certain it’s not in Rimmer’s memories; it’s in _Lister’s_ memories, which have made their way, entirely unwanted, into his head. It’s a struggle to distinguish them, but it must be Lister’s memory rather than Rimmer’s, because the Cat is in it and is looking at him with only moderate distaste.

“You... tried to _give me_ your memories of Lise Yates?” Rimmer asks.

“Yeah.” Lister sits up in his bunk, rubbing a hand over his face. “I was trying to give you some good experiences. I must’ve put the whole lot in there by mistake.”

Lise never knew him. They never even met. If Rimmer weren’t a hologram, he thinks he might throw up.

What other crucial experiences in Rimmer’s life were never actually in _his_ life at all? He scours his mind, looking for telltale signs: lager, Liverpool, digging out his own earwax with so much determination you’d think he was supplying a scented candle shop. “How could you do this to me?”

“Look, man, I’m sorry. It was an accident.”

“And now how am I expected to live with all these things I remember?”

Lister gets a look: the one that means he’s considering whether to point out that Rimmer is already dead. If he does, Rimmer will very happily welcome him into the ranks of the deceased.

“They’re that bad?” Lister eventually asks, instead.

“I know what your snot tastes like,” Rimmer says. “I feel that was information I was quite happily existing without.”

“It’s snot,” Lister says. “It tastes like snot. I promise it’s not any worse than anyone else’s.”

“You say that with such confidence, Lister,” Rimmer says, after a moment, “that I’m forced to wonder whether you have, in fact, tasted someone else’s snot. No doubt that’s lurking somewhere in this wonderful gift of new memories, waiting to ambush me further down the line.”

Lister frowns a little, like he’s trying to think back. This doesn’t seem like a good sign.

“You remember the time we caught the Cat licking his bollocks in the drive room?” Rimmer asks. “Well, now _I_ remember it from two different angles. One of the most disturbing experiences I’ve ever had, including the time I was literally killed by radiation, and now I’ve been through it in stereo.”

Lister shrugs. “It wasn’t that bad. At least it was interesting.”

“Yes, Lister, I remember very well how _you_ felt about it,” Rimmer says, terse. “You went back to your bunk and decided to see if you could do the same thing, as I recall. Again, knowledge I could have done without.”

“Look, the memory thing was a mistake, all right? I was trying to do something nice.”

Whether writing a false girlfriend into Rimmer’s past would be ‘something nice’ is _extremely_ debatable. But, in his memories of being Lister, Rimmer can feel his good intentions, and something about that makes him hesitate to argue.

Well, to argue on _that_ point, at least.

“Yes, well, your intentions don’t exactly change the fact that you’ve filled my head with humiliating recollections, do they?” Rimmer asks. “You pulled down your trousers and bared your bottom to Captain Hollister—”

“That was _you!_ ”

Rimmer sputters. “Nonsense. I wouldn’t do something like that.”

“It was right after you’d failed the officer’s exam again,” Lister says. “What, you thought I mooned the captain to defend your honour?”

Smeg. Now that he thinks about it, the mooning was preceded by the line ‘I’d like to submit an amended answer to question 12B,’ which does seem to suggest it’s one of Rimmer’s genuine memories.

He hates this. It’s impossible to know what he’s really experienced. The only memories he can trust are the ones with Lister in them; at least he knows those can’t be from Lister’s point of view.

He dives into the tangle in his head. He’s desperate to come out with something unfortunate about _Lister_ this time, to rebalance the scales.

It’s possible he succeeds slightly too well. “You _masturbated_ while I was sleeping in the same room?”

Lister stares at him for a moment. Coughs awkwardly. “Yeah, well, I could’ve gone out into the corridor, but then all the skutters come to watch the show.”

Rimmer digs through his memories, increasingly horrified. “You masturbated while _thinking_ about me?”

“When?” Lister demands, and then, “Oh. Oh, yeah. No, yeah, I did do that.”

“There I was, sleeping innocently, and you thought you’d just exploit my image for your carnal pleasure?”

“Don’t _mean_ nothing,” Lister says. “We’re in deep space, you take what material you can get. I’ve pulled myself off over Hol, too.”

“Yeah, I saw that in the memory files,” Holly says, his face materialising on the screen. “Seemed a bit forward to ask about it, tell you the truth.”

“And now I remember it as getting all hot and bothered over _myself_ ,” Rimmer says. “You’ve made me seem like a total narcissist.”

“Wow, imagine that,” Lister says.

Rimmer sits on the floor. Presses his hands over his face. Tries to envisage air flowing into and out of the lungs he used to have. It’s a lot harder to calm yourself with deep breaths when you’re dead. “Can we fix this? I mean, me? Can we fix me? Frankly, I think _you’re_ probably beyond fixing.”

“What, you want to get rid of the memory data?” Holly asks. “That’s a waste of good blackmail material, that is.”

“Holly,” Rimmer says, dropping his hands onto his knees, “how do you imagine I might employ this blackmail material? You’ve seen Lister’s memories; I’ve seen Lister’s memories; I’m fairly sure Lister’s at least semi-aware of them. The only entity on this ship who _doesn’t_ know Lister’s memories is the Cat, and, as he doesn’t listen to a word I say, I doubt I could use the threat of telling him to extort any promises of more frequent bathing.”

“Fair point,” Holly says. “Just thought that might be some consolation when I tell you I can’t do it.”

Rimmer looks up at Holly.

“You can’t erase the memories?” he asks, quietly.

“Well, there are a lot of them, aren’t there? And they’re all tangled up with yours. All sort of _zhmmed_ together. That’s the technical term.”

“Are you telling me,” Rimmer says, quieter still, “that I’ll be trying to remember I’m not Lister for the rest of my death?”

“Well, you’ll know you’re Rimmer,” Holly says. “You just might not be sure if you’re the Rimmer who ate three vindaloos and farted the Space Corps anthem to celebrate getting posted to a ship.”

Lister hops down off his bunk, crouches to get to Rimmer’s eye level. “Hey, man, I’m really sorry.”

Rimmer swats miserably at him. His hand goes straight through him, of course.

-

There’s a stirring from the upper bunk the next night, and then Lister’s voice. “You sleeping?”

“As it happens, Lister, no,” Rimmer says, with ferocious brightness. “As it happens, I’m running through every woman I ever slept with and trying to work out whether I actually slept with any of them.”

“Yvonne McGruder’s yours.”

Well, that’s something. “And?”

Pause. “And you shouldn’t be worrying about this stuff.”

Rimmer raises his eyebrows, even though Lister won’t be able to see it. “Oh, should I not? I’m sure everyone else would happily embrace not knowing what’s real and what isn’t, but old Arnie Rimmer’s so _uptight_ he just can’t get over it.”

More stirring, rustling, and Lister drops to the floor with a graceless thud. He climbs into Rimmer’s bunk, sitting on his feet. Or in his feet. In the general vicinity of his non-physical feet.

“Er, Lister,” Rimmer says, “what are you doing?”

“It’s my fault. I want to help.”

“You’ll rumple the sheets.”

“You can’t even _feel_ the sheets. You’re not even really touching them.”

“No, which means they were immaculately unrumpled until you came along,” Rimmer says.

Lister groans. “Smeg, Rimmer, will you just let me help you?”

“And how do you propose to do that, hmm?” Rimmer asks.

“I don’t know,” Lister says. “Just... tell me any memories you’re not sure about. I can tell you if they’re mine.”

Rimmer is reluctant to admit it, but just having Lister here might actually be helping, a little. Being able to hear him, to see him, even if it’s only vaguely in the mostly-darkness of the room. It’s a reminder that Lister is a real, separate person. He’s not Rimmer. He’s here.

“Lise Yates _was_ you,” he says, to make sure.

Lister sighs. “Sorry, man.”

She was wonderful. Well, yes, there was evidently something wrong with her, if she was so passionately interested in Lister, but she was still wonderful. It hurts to know that those memories aren’t real.

Rimmer closes his eyes for a moment. Opens them again. “There was...”

“Yeah?”

He knows the answer.

“There was... an incident, at the captain’s table,” Rimmer says, carefully. “One of us was invited to a meal.”

He knows the answer. There’s no reason Lister would ever have been invited to the captain’s table. He certainly wouldn’t have been as thrilled by the prospect as Rimmer remembers being.

“The starter was gazpacho soup,” Rimmer says.

“Oh, yeah,” Lister says. “Yeah. Yeah, yeah, that was me. I told them to heat it up, right? God, I felt like such a prat.”

Rimmer knows. He _knows_.

He swallows.

“Thank you,” he says, after a moment.

“Any time, man,” Lister says, his voice soft.

-

In the end, Rimmer sleeps more soundly than he has in a long time. 


End file.
